The Image
Beads of death,
in this brown city,
in the rain, throngs of twisted entrails,
black umbrellas, dead experiences, their flow.
The man is not my father, nor is he my solitary friend. I am merely the same existence, the same experience as he, and a man with common images. And like him, I was born during the first world war and surely died in the second.
To fall the way a chair falls! That was my old image, and a hope for death which the eye in the mud dreamed of.
From the gouged eye, the cracked forehead, the dull gleam of the hair, and the black clothes wet with sea, the storm, and the huge illusion, the silent screams, the fierce arias of a shipwrecked man, resounding from them, when he appears out of the weekend night fog that flows when autumn turns to winter, I have to call out, “Where did you come from?”
My tongue hangs out like a dog's.
in this brown city,
in the rain, throngs of twisted entrails,
black umbrellas, dead experiences, their flow.
The man is not my father, nor is he my solitary friend. I am merely the same existence, the same experience as he, and a man with common images. And like him, I was born during the first world war and surely died in the second.
To fall the way a chair falls! That was my old image, and a hope for death which the eye in the mud dreamed of.
From the gouged eye, the cracked forehead, the dull gleam of the hair, and the black clothes wet with sea, the storm, and the huge illusion, the silent screams, the fierce arias of a shipwrecked man, resounding from them, when he appears out of the weekend night fog that flows when autumn turns to winter, I have to call out, “Where did you come from?”
My tongue hangs out like a dog's.
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